Page 27 of Play Dirty

“It’s been almost three years, Jordan. We almost divorced over it.”

“Because he hurt you?” I ask.

“No,” she insists. “He didn’t hurt me. He just scared me. And it was so fast, ya know? That line between fantasy and reality was so thin at that point, I just… I didn’t know what to do, and I started crying and shaking and… and it was bad.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, OK? We’d agreed on the scene before we played it out. I knew what was happening. And I don’t know why I didn’t use my safe word, but I didn’t.”

“Shit,” I say. Because I don’t know what else to say.

“And it’s been hard, OK? I’m not going to lie. I love him. I really do. I do not want to divorce my husband. I love him. But he doesn’t trust himself. He won’t do any of the things we used to enjoy anymore. Just refuses,” she says.

“So…” Jesus Christ. I’m trying to wrap my head around this and it’s not easy. “So you need me to… what?”

She shrugs. A big one that lasts too long. Her shoulders hunched up near her ears, her mouth pressed together, eyes on me. “We need a third, Jordan. Or we won’t survive. He wants you to make sure he stays in line. He won’t ever fuck me again unless we can find a third.”

“Did you… look for others?”

“Of course,” she says. “We didn’t just throw away our lives in LA and come here without trying everything we could think of first. Of course we tried. But he’s so…” She holds up her hands, palms out, like she doesn’t know what to say. “He’s so strong, Jordan. The other men, they couldn’t control him. Or at least he felt they couldn’t. He didn’t trust himself. But you. You can, Jordan. You’re the only one who can.”

“Wow,” I say after several seconds of silence. “OK. You got me. I didn’t see that coming.”

“I’m begging you, OK?” She grabs onto my upper arm and leans in to me. “Begging. You. To just try. For a few weeks, that’s it. And then if you want, I’ll sell you the building. No matter what. If this works or doesn’t. I will sell you the building. I just… I don’t want to give up on him yet. I love him, Jordan. And we both still love you. We’ve moved past all our mistakes.”

Which makes me huff out a laugh. Because it suddenly makes so much sense. “I guess you’d have to, right? Move past, I mean. Since apparently I’m the only hope you have.”

“That’s not why,” she says. “I do forgive you. It was all… stupid and childish—”

“No,” I say, cutting her off. “It wasn’t. Not to Ix it wasn’t. I fucked up his life pretty bad and—”

“You didn’t kill his family, Jordan. It was—”

“Just stop, OK? I’m not that dumb. I don’t feel responsible for a fucking car accident. But the fact that he was in jail when it happened, that his family all died that day thinking he was something he wasn’t, thinking he was me, that was my fault. And look, I’m grateful that he’s still in town. That he’s…” I have to stop and reword my thoughts. Because we’re not really friends again. “That he’s considering the possibility that we might be friends again.”

“I’ve talked to him. Several times actually since we came to Denver. He was reluctant with me. Like… he just wanted to leave me in the past. But you… not you, Jordan. And he’s definitely forgiven you. Whatever it is you’ve been doing over the past several months with these games—he won’t tell me specifics—well, it’s made him pause and think hard about what we all lost back in LA. And what we could have again. How life could be better if we were all back together again.”

“He’s not going to play this game with us, I can tell you that right now. He’s happy.”

“Not the sex part. The friendship part. And it’s not a game,” she says, staring at me intently. “I’m not asking you for a game, Jordan. This is real. What I need from you is real. And if you decide it’s not how you saw yourself, this type of relationship isn’t for you, well, then fine. Alexander and I will… whatever. But I hope you’ll at least take it seriously while we’re trying. It’s not a game. If one of us loses, we all lose. Those are the stakes. That’s how it has to be.”

She looks very sad tonight. Defeated. And that’s not a word I’d ever use to describe Augustine before she came back into my life. So I don’t bother telling her the truth. She doesn’t want to hear it.

But I know how this will end. The same way it always ends when I enter a plural relationship. Broken in pieces.

“Did you even care about me?”

“Of course,” I say. “Of course I did. Why the fuck do you think I went to such lengths? I mean… yes. Just yes.”

“But you don’t anymore?”

“It’s not… just. Fuck. I’ve just moved on, that’s all. And I don’t want to look back. It was a bad time in my life. I wasn’t proud of myself. I was… what I did was just shameful. You two are part of that, through no fault of your own, but you are.”

“Well, thanks a lot,” she says.

“I don’t mean it like that. It was my shame, not yours. Not ours, either. I don’t feel any shame for that.”

I’m not sure that’s a hundred percent true. Back then, anyway. Now, who gives a fuck? I have my friends. I have my place in the world. But back then I didn’t. I was still looking for it.